CONFESSIONS OF A FACEBOOK FAILURE: Year 2
Day 13: Costco is a bottomless pit of despair, costumed by a mirage of free samples and fifty cent foot longs. Parents of pairs plus should never venture into a world without room on reserve for wiggly little rumps. I am aware of the double bun zone at the front of the cart. I am also aware that it only takes a single forklift worthy pack of paper towels to evict both booties from the coveted cart containment zone, leaving mischievousness in multiples to move freely throughout the chaos, that is Costco.
But on this day, in the spirit of roughing it, we had planned a family camp out, cloaked in the fairytale of a vacation. Since when did vacation become synonymous with torture by the way? After months of researching extortionately priced dirt patches nestled in the “wilderness” within walking distance of Walmart, weeks of packing preparation modeled after a meticulous military plan only mamas could maintain, days of stuffing too much into too little, only to have your kiddos disassemble your masterpiece to pull out their favorite lovey (which they will then inevitably forget to repack, leave at home, and cry about for the rest of the “vacation”), you get to magically puzzle together your entire household of “necessities” into the back of your four door. And that is just the preparation for the vacation.
So it is not surprising that in the midst of the final sprint, while moving the first mountain to the minivan too early in the AM to even mark as morning, that my littlest man would make the demand for “MAMA,” mid-move, leaving our sleeping bags for seconds aside our vacation chariot…
..to be stolen. Yep, our crappy camping comforters were stolen mid-mountain-move. Really?
Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!
I cried.
Then, in the spirit of the events, I determined it was time to really rough it…
…and I packed in the piranhas and headed to the pit of Costco.
I naively thought, “I can just get in and get out,” and resolve the robbery. And at the same time, save my withering spouse the torture of having to periodically bunt-kick our kids back to the porch goal line, away from oncoming traffic, while strategically stacking up our grossly gluttonous definition of essentials, like some sort of magical Jenga Ninja. Meanwhile, my little darlings will sweetly snack on samples as we shoot through the simple little shop, to the shortest of queues.
I was wrong…
…and stupid.
So after a story worthy start, I somehow magically made it to the finish line with replacement overpriced dirt patch people pouches in hand and a mile long line in sight. Thinking fast, I made one last survival stop at the tranquilizer, I mean sample stand.
Oh no!
Spicy? Healthy? What? Why?
With the sample station polluted with jalapeno infused edamame, I was forced to abandon all ideals. I never would have agreed to open that lifetime supply sized bucket of chocolate covered raisins if I wasn’t in a Code Red, Level 10, War Zone Status.
There…was…no…choice!
Must…get…out!
However in that moment of weakness, they smelled the fear, and that bucket transformed into a bongo drum signaling a battle cry, with the perfect percussion to match my middle’s impromptu, guttural “Moooooomyyyyyyyyyyyy.” My own little toddler Tarzan. This climax was only peaked by the bullets that followed, as the forbidden tasty treats became ammunition for my tiniest warrior, an infectious defense against the ear piercing battle cry of his female counterpart. And as this ensemble of mortification reached its assumed crescendo, I hear this…
…“Move it or lose it, lady.”
And something broke in me.
All social standards and sanity snapped, as I turned around to face my mommy nemesis. Like a slow motion scene from the Matrix, death scowl spread, all notions of nonviolent communication violently pushed aside, ready to go all LB on this lady, opting to lose it rather than move it, when suddenly…
…my slow motion, shameful, self-imposed call to battle was abruptly halted, and then sent into a masochistic rewind, as my eyes met with…
…the dreaded mommy acquaintance!
My kind, currently kid-free, casual acquaintance, terrified by the landmines her unsuspecting sarcasm had just shattered, took a physical step back, perhaps in hope of avoiding the shrapnel of raisins and shame that continued to shoot all around her. But before I even have a chance to explain (or to even materialize an excuse I could believe myself) , my phone rings.
“Hey, Kate. It looks like they stole the chairs too. Could you go back and grab some?” Really?
AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!
I try to desperately claw my way out of the foxhole but between the battle cries and the audible loss of dignity, I’m sure it was all gibberish. So with only prayer to pull me through, I eventually limp away with my multimillion dollar reserve of “bargain” buybacks, navigate through the zoo of ravenous cars fighting for spots like a scene of walkers from the walking dead, unload my convulsing wild beasts, shoo away the line of voracious vehicles battling for my two little white lines and shift into automatic when I hear this…
…“I need to go potty, Mama! Really, REALLY bad! Right NOW!” Really?
AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!
I weigh my options.
“HOLD IT!” I scream. “I am getting us all out of here ,” as if I am some sort of purple heart patriot worthy of praise. Having weighed my options, the threat of #1 mid-carseat came nowhere near the potential Scene 2 of bringing the beasts back into public viewing.
Heading home, I hear “I’m hungry.” “I’m starving.” “I think I might die without food!” Realizing my plan of sustaining them on samples had been foiled by the natural repellent of nutrition (darn coconut water and kale stations), and realizing our refrigerator was now a cooler officially immersed in the mini van mountain masterpiece awaiting us, I opt to eliminate, one more dish, one more spill, one more scene, and spoil the unworthy savages (or rather myself) with a well-balanced diet of chicken and mac-and-cheese from the health food haven known as El Pollo Loco. To my amazement, with the instruments of torture filled with sustenance, I found an entire 30 seconds to breathe and think and be silent without interruption and experience a temporary lapse in reason, mentally patting myself on the back for surviving with only a wounded ego. Maybe this vacation will be nice? Maybe it will be relaxing now that we’re all fed and …
My fantasy is interrupted.
“Sorry Mama. So sorry mama. I didn’t mean to.”
The magical mac-and-cheese muzzle is now coating every orifice of my purse, the thoughtful disaster, making sure to not exclude even the smallest of crevice of my phone, my wallet, or even my pictures. Really?
Perfect.
Breathe Kate. Where are the wipes? Just grab a wipe.
Oh yeah…we already packed them.
Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!
Cruising into the finish-line, I silently load the troops into our bulging tank, too tired to tell the tragic story to an unsuspecting Mr. Herder.
And then…
“So, are you ready to go rough it?” he wonders aloud.
I shake my head and laugh.
Camping has nothing on Costco with kids. Nothing!
